


This Weakness of Flesh

by RonnaWren (Wolf_of_Lilacs)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Masturbation, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 04:00:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: It feels like no time has passed and like several decades have dragged by.OrMitt makes it to Washington. Paul leaves.





	This Weakness of Flesh

Freshman offices are nice enough, nothing too exciting, nothing too awful. He throws his jacket over his chair, puts his feet up on his desk for the experience of it, leans his head back.

"Well, this _is_ exciting," Anne says.

"I'd say."

She grins, exhaustion creeping in around the edges. "I thought we were done."

"So did I."

"Not the Washington you expected to come to," she adds.

"No, but I'm here. For the good of the country."

"For the good of the country," she echoes, rolling her eyes.

He finds Paul not long after this irksome exchange, sitting moodily in the capitol grill, sipping a drink and reading the news. The activity that occupies everyone, these days.

"Anything new?"

Paul starts. "No. More of the same. Glad it won't be mine to deal with soon."

"I'll bet you are. It's almost enough to drive me to drink, too," Mitt asserts.

"But not quite enough?" Paul finishes the dregs and sets his glass down heavily. His face is far more pinched than Mitt remembers, close-up like this. He wants to reach out, smooth the furrow between Paul's brows, beg him to stay because he's here, don't go don't go…(The fault of _one_ man that he is here. Mitt supposes he ought to be grateful.)

He does none of these things, instead opting for a "how are the kids?" and a firm, perhaps rather too firm, handshake. Yes, this is familiar. (It's been six years since the best moments between them, and it feels like no time has passed and like several decades have dragged by.)

It's perverse, these fantasies of burying himself deep, Paul mewling with each thrust, begging for him to continue, for "more" and "harder, oh god yes harder daddy—President Romney—senator Romney—Mitt."

At least one of those is accurate, now. Mitt's hard just thinking about it. He shifts in his seat in discomfort.

Paul doesn't notice a thing, while he orders a second drink. Oblivious as he has always been. Which is best, of course.

But later that night in their suite, when Anne is asleep and snoring peaceably, he goes into the bathroom, turns on the shower, and strokes himself with reckless abandon. "Paul," he moans, the water sluicing down the tiles, his hand pumping faster. "Mr. Speaker. Oh, gosh, yes yes." Ah, the guilt is glorious. He feels it as clearly as the arousal itself, all of it wound together, and Paul's sweet face imposed over his mind eye, his eyes half-closed in pleasure, his mouth slack. _Oh, dear boy._

He comes with a final jittering thrust, spattering the tiles. He slumps, watches the water wash the evidence of his impropriety away.

(Oh, how it would have been, for Paul to swallow him deep, for just a slight graze of teeth to send him plummeting. His flaccid cock stirs at this, but he's tired and Anne may wake…)

No, it's best to end this now. He turns off the tap, fastidiously dries himself, puts on a fresh set of garments.

Before he gets into bed, he kneels by the side and says a quick prayer for forgiveness. (It is only the hundredth such prayer, and, he does not doubt, many will follow it. Heavenly Father, please forgive me for this weakness of flesh…)

Swearing in day is hectic and oddly thrilling. As he takes the oath, he can see Paul somewhere in the gallery, smiling with rueful pride. He could have been here, in a different time. Instead of retiring, he should have run against Baldwin. Who else could have beaten her? But Mitt never suggested it. He should have. He should have done a lot of things.

"I do solemnly affirm that I will support and defend…" He repeats each line as they are spoken, his eyes darting about the room. Paul, watching. Anne, the kids, the grandkids, all watching. And perversely, he feels himself harden. Because, ah, he's here at last.

(His constituents wanted him, always wanted him here. He will do what is best for them, whether or not they approve it; they approve of him. Would they approve of…his activities in the dead of night? But perhaps it is immaterial.)

“…So help me god." And oh, yes! Paul gives a thumbs-up at its conclusion.

"Paul," Mitt says afterward, catching his wrist as everyone files out.

"I have a ceremony of my own," Paul mutters. "If you want to attend that." Of course. Gavel passing, to Pulosi.

"I’ll be there. That’s a painful experience. You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait!" Before he loses the nerve.

"Yes?" Paul leans close. The scent of his cologne (or aftershave) is light, just right. Mitt breathes it in. Whatever he wears hasn’t change in six years.

"I would like to—" But he can't finish. He shouldn't, anyway.

(More prayers tonight. So be it.)

Paul looks politely confused. "Like to what?"

"Go out for dinner," he finishes.

"Well, yes, why not?” And Paul smiles a secret little smile, and Mitt wonders if he is truly so oblivious after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep trying to quit this fandom, but my hand slipped, again.


End file.
